With Olivia asleep at six o'clock in the evening, Elliot goes to the second bed, grabs the wad of papers from last night's hospital visit.
He skims through the pages, but can't find any mention of her wrist, which he's hoping means that it's healed and that there's nothing more to worry about. But what does catch his eye instead, is worse: It is the mountain of other physical damage that is still, two weeks later, unhealed enough to have been charted during yesterday's exam.
Three separate rib fractures.
First- and second-degree burns across forty percent of the stomach, chest and breasts.
Two skin infections requiring antibiotic ointment (Two?)
Severe vaginal trauma. Internal abrasions. Blistering.
His heart stops. Severe? Two weeks later?
He puts the papers down, suddenly regretting this gross violation of her privacy. And he already has all the information he needs to know: she has not healed.
He wanders into the bathroom, stops short when he spies the tiny clump of hair she managed to shave off before he overpowered her. He crouches down, picks it up, studies it like it's a piece of evidence.
The torrent of tears is too sudden and too powerful to control and he collapses onto the tiled floor by the tub, weeping quietly. In all his fantasies of reconciling with Olivia – and there've been many in the last two years – never did he imagine that he would have to be the stronger one.
He has the urge to talk to somebody, to commiserate. It strikes him, then, hard: the person he's always turned to in moments of crisis is Olivia. He tentatively gets to his feet and pads back to the bed to grab his phone, then returns to the bathroom and scrolls through his contacts, settling, finally on a name. As the phone rings, he scrambles to think up a pretext, however flimsy, for the call.
"Dad?" comes the familiar voice of his eldest daughter.
"Hi honey," he greets, keeping his voice low so he doesn't awaken Olivia. He feels some of the tension in his shoulders dissipate, just at the sound of her voice. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."
"You sound funny," says Maureen, worriedly. "Like you've been crying."
Taken aback by his daughter's perceptiveness, he tries to deny it. "No, no… I'm okay. Honest. I just wanted to see how the wedding planning's going."
"Uh-huh. You're curious about the seating arrangements?"
"Well …"
"Or you gonna tell me what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Can't I call my daughter to say hello?"
"You can, but … you don't." She pauses. "How's Olivia?"
He sighs. "She's doing all right, considering."
Maureen takes in a shivered breath. "It was pretty bad, wasn't it." Her voice is gravelly. He's not sure how much of the saga she knows.
"Yeah," he says, swallowing a lump. "It was. Very bad."
Maureen continues. "I mean … I read online that … and maybe it's not true, I don't know, sometimes these news sites get things wrong, but it said … she was raped. Is that true? I mean, totally tell me if it's none of my business, but I guess, I don't know, if it is true, I'm just … I'm so sorry. Will you send her my love?"
"I will. And …" He hesitates. "… Yeah, it's true."
A hush falls over Maureen. "But you reconnected, right, and you're going to help her recover?"
"Yeah, we did reconnect. And yes, I'm … trying to help her."
"And she's letting you?"
"Why do you say it like that?"
"Um, have you met Olivia? She's, like, the most independent person I know."
"That's true, but she understands that she can't be alone right now." Does she? he wonders.
"Well, don't let her push you away, okay dad? Because she'll try to. You know that, dad, right? But you can't take it personally. It's not that she doesn't wantto be with you, she just … can't help it. It's like, her nature or something."
"Thank you for the advice, Dr. Phil."
"Hey, you called me. You really want me to bore the shit out of you describing the seating arrangements? Because I can. Let's see. I put Aunt Molly and Uncle Jim and mom's cousin Lena together at Table Five, and – "
"Okay, okay, you made your point."
Maureen sighs. "I'm just saying, dad, if it were me, I'd probably be reluctant to accept help, even from Justin, and I'm about to marry the guy."
"Oh yeah? Why's that?" He's genuinely curious.
"Because it changes the relationship. And there's a fine line between letting someone help you and giving a guy an excuse to think he saved you."
"I don't think Olivia's like that, honey."
"I'm sure she's not. But it's not a conscious thing, it's an instinct. Okay, so let me give you an example. Justin's, like, the least sexist guy I've ever met, okay? Totally believes in doing half the childcare, does his share of the housework, doesn't care that I might earn more than he does, blah blah blah. But anyway, I remember this one time, before we were engaged, we'd been dating, like, a month? Anyways, we were about to cross Fourteenth Street just as the walk sign went on, and there was this cab barreling down Broadway that looked like it might try to beat the yellow light. Which I saw coming a mile away, and so when I stepped onto the curb, I was totally prepared to, you know, not go any further. And suddenly I feel this arm around my waist, and Justin's all, like, 'sweetie, sweetie, be careful! There's a cab!' And let me tell you, dad, I almost swung at him. I was like, excuse me, I don't need some dude to show me how to cross a Manhattan street!'"
"Maybe he really thought you didn't see it coming."
"See, that's exactly what I expected you to say. But can you imagine doing that to Olivia? Okay, sans the 'sweetie' part. What would she do?"
All at once, he sees Maureen's point. "You're right. She'd probably pummel me."
"Exactly. And can you imagine her ever doing that to you as you're about to cross the street?"
"No."
"So there you go. I've seen Justin jaywalk a hundred times. A lot of times it's a much closer call than it was with that cab. But I trust that his reflexes are honed enough to avoid oncoming traffic. Because he's not a five year old. That's what I expected from him. In that moment, he didn't respect me enough to have that same trust in me."
"I think you're being a little hard on him."
"That's because you're exactly the same kind of guy as he is. Let's face it. Your whole job was to protect women. I get it. And in your line of work, that's exactly what was required. But you were also crazy-overprotective of us too. Which is fine from a dad. But being on the receiving end of that all the time with someone who's supposed to be your equal? Personally, I'd get paranoid that this guy is losing respect for me."
He mulls all of this over. "Well, I'd like to think Olivia understands that these are unusual circumstances."
"I'm sure she does. And the partner thing … I get that you're in this weird gray zone with her right now, and you've also been together for eons, but it doesn't mean she's not still fighting that instinct to, you know, maintain your respect as an equal."
Elliot marvels at how well his daughter appears to know the partner she encountered mainly in passing as a teenager. He lets a moment pass. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Have you ever given yourself a haircut?"
Maureen laughs. "Are you insane? Me and scissors do not get along."
"But I mean … would you? Would Kathleen, or Lizzie, let's say?"
"You mean, to save money?"
"No. Well, maybe. Or let's say, if you just felt like a change?"
"No way, dad. God no. Even professional stylists leave their own hair to another professional. Why do you ask?"
"No reason."
"No reason? You just asked me this total non sequitur out of the blue because it popped into your – oh. Oh. Wait. Did Olivia … do … that?" Maureen sounds horrified.
He freezes, worrying that he's crossed a privacy boundary that he shouldn't have. This isn't his daughter's business.
"That's not good, dad."
"I know."
"That's, like, a mega cry for help. Especially for someone like Olivia."
"Why do you say that?"
Maureen considers the question. "Because … she's super stylish. I guarantee you she doesn't go to some eight-dollar barber in Queens like you do. Do you know how much it costs to get your hair done – I mean highlights, cut, the whole shebang, in Manhattan?"
"I'm sure it's expensive."
"Guess."
He sighs. "I don't know, seventy-five dollars?"
"Ha!" Maureen exclaims. "That's hilarious, dad. Try two-fifty. Before taxes and tip. And that's if you really bargain-shop. Even if Olivia knows her way around a pair of scissors, she'd never risk screwing it up. Cutting your own hair is like … maiming yourself on purpose … cosmetically." Maureen takes a breath. "It almost makes me think of – never mind."
"What were you going to say?"
Maureen waits a beat before answering. "I was going to say … and maybe I'm off base here, but it sort of makes me think of the cutting disorder."
"She's not suicidal, Mo."
"Neither are girls who cut," Maureen retorts. "You remember Bethany O'Donnell? Eighth grade?"
"The one who was in your algebra class? She was a cutter?" He has a vague picture in his head of a cute petite girl with brown ringlets and eyeglasses.
"Oh my god, yes. Big time. Arms, legs, thighs. She never wore shorts or skirts, even when it was, like, a hundred degrees."
"Wasn't she the one who ended up at Yale?"
Maureen lets out an exasperated sigh. "Okay, totally not the point, but yes. Anyways, she told me once, and I sort of get it, that the therapists always described it as a pain release, you know? But for her, it was more like this need to … how did she put it? Purge herself of these imaginary toxins."
"Huh."
"And of course it later came out that she'd been molested."
"Really? I don't remember that." Somewhere at the back of his mind it occurs to him that his interest in this revelation is significantly more muted than it normally would be.
"We were already in college. She wrote this diatribe on Facebook about it."
Elliot's silent for several seconds, processing his daughter's words. Once upon a time he would've followed up on this; asked whether the guy was prosecuted, whether Bethany had received counselling. Right now, he doesn't care at all.
Maureen mistakes his silence for discomfort. "Okay, sorry dad, maybe I got a little carried away with the Psych 101 routine. If you want to talk about the wedding, that's cool."
Elliot swallows a tear. "You know, I really did just call to hear your voice."
Maureen takes a moment to respond. "Dad, um … I'm really …. sorry about what's happened. I know you've wanted to reconnect with her for a while, but I'm sure not like this."
"No."
"It's good that you're there. She needs you."
"Thank you."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah."
"You're in love with her, aren't you?"
Taken aback, Elliot takes a beat to respond. "Yeah," he admits. "I am."
"I figured." She takes a breath. "Well look. I hope it goes without saying, she's of course invited to the wedding. I wasn't sure before you made contact, if you'd feel funny about it, and now I don't even know what address to send the invitation to, and I know she might not be up to it, or whatever, but I'd love to have her there so please tell her."
"I will, honey. Thank you."
An hour later, just as he's contemplating what to do about dinner, the first nightmare kicks in.
"Water."
He doesn't realize she's still sleeping, and he goes to the bathroom to fill a glass. When he returns, he assumes she simply fell back asleep. He puts the glass on the night table.
"Please, I'm so thirsty."
"Liv, I got you some water." Wary of thrusting it in her face – they don't need another smashed glass incident – he jostles her upper arm.
"Anything," she mumbles. "I'll do … any … mm."
He rubs her shoulder. "Wake up, honey. I have some water for you."
"Please," she pleads. He can feel the tension in her shoulders. "I'm so … thirs …" She starts rocking on her side, slowly at first, then picking up speed. The anguish on her face is palpable. "Please don't please don't please don't please – "
"Liv," he tries again, patiently. "Wake up." He gently shakes her shoulder. "Come on."
But the contact seems to only agitate her further. She violently hurls herself forward, right towards the edge of the bed.
"Whoa!" His reflex kicks in, and he grabs her waist before she falls over. He holds her steady with both hands. "Shh … shh … you're okay. It's okay." He lays his cheeks flat against her upper arm, hoping the contact calms her.
It works; she seems to settle. He glances at the glass of water, and then at the clock. It's almost eight o'clock in the evening, and she hasn't had more than three bites of food in the last forty-eight hours. He considers waking her, but in this moment she finally looks peaceful, and he doesn't have the heart to.
Twenty minutes later, the second nightmare hits. She moans and shakes, and he thinks he hears her mumble, "my old partner," but he can't be sure. The dream then seems to fade, and she's once again calm.
The third time it happens, she screams and thrashes and sweats, frantically kicking the sheets away, and then finally resorts to begging an unseen assailant to stop, pleading that she can't take anymore. When she starts to scratch at her burns, he pulls her wrists away, holds them together in front of her and tries to rouse her.
"Shh, Liv, it's okay."
"I'm a police officer."
"Wake up, honey. You're okay."
"I'm a police – "
He holds her, tries to help her calm. She starts to hyperventilate and he's terrified that something will go wrong with her lung. But she manages to get hold of herself, calm down. He holds her until she falls asleep again.
Ten minutes later, a sharp rap at the door startles her awake. He waits a few extra seconds until she's fully conscious, no longer agitated, before he opens the door.
It's the hotel manager, Paul. Guests reported hearing screaming. Elliot allows a suspicious-looking Paul a cursory glance inside the room, just enough to show him that Olivia is fine, but not long enough for him to gawk. As he's closing the door on the nosy manager, Paul's eyes land on the broken bathroom lock, a piece of it still on the carpet. "Sir, I have to inform you that you'll be charged to replace that lock. We'll send someone first thing tomorrow morning."
"No, please don't." Elliot puts up a hand as the manager looks to object. He lowers his voice, not sure if Olivia can hear him. "Sorry, let me clarify. We'll pay for the damage. But please don't replace the lock until after we check out."
Paul looks at him quizzically. "Okay, then. You have a good night sir."
She is already asleep by the time he returns to the beds.
He passes the evening hours watching the Tom Cruise marathon on low volume. He finishes Rain Man, then moves on to A Few Good Men. Olivia's phone buzzes so many times that he finally silences it. Still, every few minutes it lights up. There are five calls from Cragen, two calls and a text from Amaro, two calls from Amanda, two from Fin, one from Munch, and several he doesn't recognize. He makes the mistake of answering one of the unknown calls, dipping into the bathroom to take it. He angrily hits the "end" button when he realizes it's a reporter, missing the days when he could show his disgust by banging the phone down on the hook.
At eight forty-five, he receives a text from Cragen on his own phone.
You didn't call back. Need an update.
Elliot writes and rewrites a response several times, debating how much to divulge.
In hotel, sleeping. Wiped out from the heat.
Cragen isn't stupid:
Cut the crap. Tell me what's going on
Elliot writes back:
Honest. Sleeping. Early night. Everything under control.
The response does not deflect a call.
"What happened?" Cragen demands, by way of greeting.
Elliot slips into the bathroom, talks in a low voice. "She's having a rough time, but like I said, it's under control."
"You're not going to be more specific?"
"No."
Cragen lets a beat pass. "I need to see her."
"Why? Is there a development?"
"No, because I care about her and I'm worried."
"Not tonight." Sensing the brusqueness won't go over well, Elliot adds, "Look, I'm not trying to be cryptic here. I'm just asking you to respect that she needs rest and privacy tonight."
"Well can you at least put her on the phone?"
He clucks his tongue, getting annoyed. "I told you, she's asleep. I don't want to wake her up."
"Elliot, I'm not trying to pry. She's entitled to time and privacy and whatever other support she needs. But I also have a greater responsibility here. To her."
"I understand that, I do. But I'm not lying. She's exhausted. Please respect that."
Cragen lets a beat pass. "All right. How about this. Breakfast tomorrow. I'll come to the hotel."
Elliot hesitates. He knows Cragen trusts him, but as far as the Department is concerned, he's Joe Civilian. "Don, I have to be honest. She may not … be up to that."
Cragen sighs. "Look, Elliot, the last thing I want to do is to upset her. But I have to balance that against the responsibility I have, to her, to make sure that she's being taken care of. It's the least she deserves from me. So please. I'd like for her – and you – to join me for breakfast tomorrow. You pick the time, and I'll see you in the lobby."
"Is this some kind of test of her mental health?" Elliot asks, suddenly paranoid. "Is her promotion on the line?"
"Absolutely not," Cragen snaps. "You really think I'd do that to her?"
"No, no. I'm sorry." He pauses, realizing he's going to have to agree to this. "All right. How about eight o'clock?"
"Eight o'clock," agrees Cragen. "Great. Will see you then." Cragen seems to sense his hesitation. "Elliot, be straight with me. What went down in the precinct yesterday was more devastating than any of us expected. Is she having a breakdown? Do I need to intervene tonight?"
"No," Elliot says finally. "She's okay. We'll see you for breakfast."
"Eight a.m., Elliot. Sharp. Tell her."
"I will."
Suddenly recalling Maureen's warning, he takes a long breath. "And Don?"
"Yeah?"
"You might consider … revising the order. Tell her she needs someone with her twenty-four-seven."
Taken aback, there's a long silence on the phone. "Copy that."
At nine o'clock in the evening, he finally orders room service. He tries different menu items this time, and tries to coax her awake, but she is dead to the world, and as much as he wants to see her eat something, he's also loath to interrupt this rare stretch of peaceful slumber. He eats on the second bed, leaves some food for her, hoping she'll want it later.
She doesn't.
Close to midnight he falls asleep back in her bed, holding her flush against his chest as he has the last two nights. If he's honest with himself, he's doing this as much for himself as he is for her; he's hated sleeping alone these last two years. As rough as the last two nights have been for her, he's grateful for the company. His daughter's words linger in his mind, though, scaring him. What if she decides to kick him out? He's not sure he can go back to being alone. To sleeping alone. Not alone, he corrects himself. Without her.
The night crawls by. He wakes up constantly, sometimes by her nightmares, sometimes by his own, sometimes by nothing specific. He is relieved when the sun finally rises, though it's still a few hours till they're due to meet Cragen for breakfast. He lets her sleep and busies himself showering, checking his email, facetiming with Eli in the hotel bathroom. He also uses the free time to hastily discard the pack of razors in the garbage bag of a maid's cart that he finds down the hall, only to realize upon returning to the room that he should have shaved first. Damn.
At seven-thirty in the morning, he gently nudges her shoulder.
"Liv?"
She stirs, slowly opening her eyes, squinting at the sun.
"Good morning, sleepyhead."
"Mmm… what time is it?" Her gaze is unfocused.
"Seven-thirty."
She groans. "Really? I feel like I could sleep five more hours."
"How's your head?"
"It's … okay."
"And the dizziness?"
"Will let you know when I sit up."
"Yeah, well, that would be now. We're meeting Cragen for breakfast in half an hour."
Her eyes widen in alarm. "What? Why?"
"Because he wants to see you."
She lets her eyes drift closed again. "Well … I don't want to see him."
"He just wants to verify that I'm not holding you hostage," he jokes.
"Ha-ha. Seriously, El, I just want to sleep."
"You've been sleeping for thirteen hours."
This gets her attention. Her eyes pop open again and she slowly sits up, blinking at the daylight. "No I haven't."
"Since a little after six o'clock in the evening yester-"
"Okay, okay, maybe you're right." She blushes. "I guess, um, I guess I needed it."
"Yeah," he says neutrally. He grits his teeth. "Look, Liv, if you want to get Cragen off your back, put on some jeans, go down there, have breakfast with him, and show him that you're okay."
She sits back against the headboard, pulls her knees up to her chest, cupping them. She looks up at him with haunted eyes. "Am I okay?"
He sits down on the edge of the bed next to her, looks her in the eye. "I think only you can answer that." He pauses. "And maybe … "
"Maybe what?" she asks, fascinated.
"Maybe right now it's okay to … not be okay."
She holds his gaze for several seconds, contemplating his response.
He finally looks away, shifting awkwardly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply you weren't – "
She cuts him off. "No, no. I think maybe you're right." She eyes him cheekily. "Even though what you just said was rhetorical bullshit."
He grins. "I'm that rusty?"
"Nah." She smiles weakly, her eyes gleaming as she looks at him. "Not much you can really say." She breaks his gaze, glances at the alarm clock. She musters to get out of bed. "I guess I should get ready."
After she brushes her teeth and showers (he hovers by the door, listening for signs of distress, glad he made the call not to fix the lock), he watches her get ready in the main room. Her movements are slow, clunky; she seems to wince with every step, and her breathing is still more labored than he'd like. He wishes she would indulge in a painkiller, but he doesn't want to fuss. He watches her brush her hair, tie it back in a ponytail, only to yank it out, only to retie it, only to yank it out again, and then finally settle on a loose bun. He's not sure if she's always this indecisive or whether she's nervous, or trying to cover up the microscopic bald patch at her hairline. The bit she shaved off – about the surface area of a pencil eraser – is probably too miniscule for most people to notice, but he knows she sees it, and she knows that he knows. He winces at the image of what she almost succeeded in doing, of the sense of despair that must've triggered the episode, of his daughter's interpretation. He reminds himself again that no matter how hard she resists, he can't leave her alone. Not while she's still vulnerable to the haunting memories that she hasn't yet learned how to process.
She concludes with a touch of mascara (he has no memory of seeing her buy any makeup at Duane Reade two nights ago, but somehow she's got it), then rips the bandaid off her face and covers her cheeks with a dab of rouge. The cut is still visible, but not severe enough to garner widespread attention. If she were a man, it'd look like she cut herself shaving. He grimaces at the thought: she did cut herself … shaving.
He wants to tell her how beautiful she looks, but this time he dares not say a word.
Inside the elevator, Elliot watches her body language out of the corner of his eye. The lower they go, the more nervous she gets.
She opens her mouth to speak, her voice barely audible. "He's going to ask about the cut on my face."
It's the first she's demonstrated she's aware of it, of what caused it.
"He probably will," he says mildly. "But you know, Liv, you're an adult, and it's none of his business."
The curve of her mouth slides upward, and he's rewarded with a flash of eye contact. Even if only for a second, this is the Olivia he knows.
"Don't – " she starts, clamps her mouth closed, eyes recast on the floor. She takes in a shaky breath, exhales. "Please don't tell him about … what happened …. yesterday."
"What happens in that room stays in that room," he reassures her, heartened that at least she's acknowledging it happened. He pauses. "But I do think it's something you should discuss with a therapist."
She's silent. But he can tell by the way she shifts that she understands.
She jumps at the sound of the doors dinging at the lobby. She stands, frozen in place, like a child panicking in front of the down escalator. "I can't do this."
He takes hold of her hand, which is strangely ice cold. "Come," he coaxes. He pulls her forward gently. "It'll be okay."
But she stays rooted to the floor and the doors yawn closed in front of them. The car sits in the lobby, awaiting a command.
"I can't face him," she whispers, her chin quivering.
Surprised, he turns to her. "Cragen? Why not?"
"Elliot, he stood there and listened to that entire humiliating story. How can I look him in the eye?"
He sighs. "Because you have nothing to be ashamed of. Because he knows, like I do, that none of what that bastard did to you changes who you are."
"That's not – " She stops short, unable to explain.
Still inside the elevator, they stand side by side. Any second now, and the car will either commence a new ascent, or someone in the lobby will summon it.
Turning to face her and cupping both her upper arms, he tries again. "All you have to do is go out there, say hello, and have breakfast."
He hits the lobby button, and the doors obediently reopen. He looks at her beseechingly. "It'll be okay, Liv. It's just Cragen. He's not judging you."
Seeing that she's not going to budge, he lets the doors close again and hits the STOP button. He turns to face her, waits expectantly.
"When I was interrogating Lewis about Alice Parker, the first victim," she starts, "he talked about all these gruesome things he'd done to her – all in the hypothetical, of course – and he said to me, I should be so lucky someone does those things to me."
"They all say crap like that, Liv. You know that."
"No, I know. That's not – anyway, he was enjoying watching me squirm as he told me."
"Go on."
"Last night I had a dream. I was alone in the interrogation room with Lewis, and Cragen and the entire rest of the stationhouse – like, even the unis downstairs – were watching from behind the window."
He's dreading where she's going with this. "Go on."
"So, he was describing all these things he'd done to Alice Parker, and suddenly I realized that I was completely naked."
"Oh, Liv."
"I was naked a-and … and I realized that he wasn't describing what he'd done to her, he was talking about what he'd done to me. Past tense. And then he pushed me onto the table, and I kept warning him that I was a police officer, that he wouldn't get away with this, that any minute the squad would step in and stop him. But he wasn't fazed at all, and he went ahead and started raping me on the table, and I wouldn't – or couldn't – fight him, but instead I kept wondering why Cragen wasn't interceding. And at the same time, I've got this little voice in my head going, why the hell are you relying on Cragen? Save yourself, goddammit! And then I think, maybe Cragen thinks that I'm letting this happen as an interrogation tactic. And then I start hoping that nobody is there behind the mirror, because I feel so stupid for having this interrogation strategy backfire like this, for exposing myself."
Elliot grasps her by both shoulders, stares her down. "Listen to me. None of that happened. Your subconscious was bringing out your worst fears. Nobody thinks that you did anything to bring this on yourself. None of this was your fault."
"I know, but it doesn't change that … Cragen … heard … all those details … The rape was bad enough, Elliot. But how I … begged … for water … like a dog …" She sniffles, trying to hold it together. "How can I … ever … go back there?"
He pulls her into an embrace, holding her carefully. "Cragen doesn't look at you any differently. I know this for a fact."
"How can he not?" Her voice is muffled by his shirt.
"Because he heard Viva's story. He knows how much you were suffering. He knows that you were out of your mind with thirst. It was a normal human response."
She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter."
He sighs. "Liv, I don't think that's what your dream was even about."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't think the prospect of seeing Cragen is upsetting you because he heard that story. I think you're reacting to how abandoned you felt. To the fact that nobody helped you, nobody came for you. This happened to you because nobody had your back."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?"
He holds her perfectly still for tens of seconds, letting her weep unreservedly. When he feels her body start to calm against his, he glances at his watch. "It's eight-twelve," he says softly.
"Okay."
"We should go out there."
"Okay."
"I'm going to push the button, okay?"
She clings to him. "I'm really scared, Elliot."
"Of what?"
"That …. that I won't … that I can't … face this. That I can't … handle this. That I'm a hypocrite for telling so many other women that they would."
"Look," he starts, his lips at her ear, his voice a thrumb. "I don't think there's anything I can say to … make it … better, or easier, or … less scary. But I do know that things that are hard to face, challenges, are much more daunting in the abstract, than if you break them down, step by step, task by task. I don't think your handling this, or your recovering or not recovering is a binary thing. It's a process. It'll happen bit by bit. It'll be little things, little moments, that get better, less … painful over time. Like right now, your only task is to come out of this elevator with me and have breakfast with Cragen. An hour, Liv. And then it'll be over."
"I know," she whispers, still frozen in place.
"What's the worst thing that can happen?"
"That he … looks at me with pity," she says honestly.
He considers this. "There's a difference between sympathy and pity. It's sympathy that he feels, for how much you've suffered, for how hard this is for you now. He cares about you, Liv. Everybody cares about you." He pauses. "Everybody loves you."
When she doesn't respond, he takes her hand. "Come," he coaxes. "Come with me. It'll be okay, I promise."
Completely mute, she finally lets him lead her out, her hand squeezing his for dear life.